


The Recruit

by anonymouscactus



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Agent!Reader, F/M, not stucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-01-16 14:51:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21272999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymouscactus/pseuds/anonymouscactus
Summary: Becoming a SHIELD agent had been your dream and finally, you’ve achieved it. You’re at the top of your class in every field except one—hand to hand combat, and it doesn’t impress Captain Rogers in the slightest. Instead, it seems to convince him you’re useless, setting off a tense relationship between the two of you. In an effort to bridge the gap, Bucky offers to help you train to earn your way back into Steve’s good graces. What could possibly go wrong?





	1. Prologue

It’s barely nine in the morning and Steve already feels a colossal headache brewing in the back of his head. He digs the tips of his fingers into the corners of his eyes in a piss poor attempt to relieve the pressure, sighs audibly through his nose. He’s just hung up with a hologrammed version of Secretary Ross, who hasn’t let him be since he dropped a new protocol packet as thick as the bible on his desk a month ago.

Steve may have been acquitted of all charges following his brief stint as a fugitive after the Sokovia Accords, but Secretary Ross hasn’t been shy about keeping Rogers under his thumb as much as he can.

He doesn’t trust the Captain as far as he can throw him, but proposing policies is about all the power he holds over the centenarian now despite his best efforts to change that. It’s small relief, this knowledge, considering the galaxy-sized migraines he suffers after every meeting, super serum be damned.

He shoves the packet to the end of his desk to be buried under more paperwork, a transparent effort to ignore Ross for as long as he can. His fingers move deftly across his holographic keyboard, a feat he may have punched someone for suggesting he’d master some years previous, and he pulls up the latest mission reports submitted by agents and the other Avengers. He picks apart Sam’s chicken-scratch handwriting on the scanned digital copy, the strain on his eyes only adding to the pulsing behind them.

Paperwork is his least favorite part of Avenging, needless to say, and by the time he’s filed every report from every mission in the past two months—a whopping two hours later thanks to his wandering mind—he’s ready to either hurl or throw something out a window. His head pounds as a terrible reminder when he stands from his desk, lacing his fingers behind his back and arching to relieve the tightness in the muscle.

He’s ready for a snack and a nap to ward off his headache when the circular disk on his desk flashes to life and sends up a hologram of Director Maria Hill. She’d been promoted shortly after the Captain’s acquittal, Fury feeling he’d lost sight of the vision of SHIELD after the death of Alexander Pierce three years prior. Steve had seen it coming, recognized the signs of restlessness and hopelessness in the former director. Fury wasn’t a very open individual, but Steve figured he’d gotten to read him well enough.

“Captain,” Maria greets, her dark hair tied back in its usual pony. A long time ago, Steve had been attracted to her, find similar qualities in her that Peggy had possessed in the 40s. But then he realized that was all it was, a deep ache and longing for something familiar, some _ one _ familiar.

“Director,” he replies curtly, a small rise of frustration building in his broad chest. So much for that nap.

“Your newest agent is here.” For a minute his mind blanks, and Maria must see it because then she says, “Agent 13’s replacement?”

Bitterness is sour on his tongue and unwittingly his jaw clenches as he grinds his teeth. Maria’s dark eyebrows pinch together just slightly, and Steve schools his features back into stoic professionalism.

“Of course. I’ll be right there.”

* * *

Your heeled foot bounces against the carpet, nervous jitters setting butterflies and nausea loose in your stomach. Your resume is perched on your lap and your fingers tap out a rhythm against the arms of the chair in which you’re seated. A quiet hum in your ears, bottom lip chewed raw by your teeth, eyes unseeing straight ahead at the wall.

You can feel your blouse sticking to your back from the thin layer of sweat, and subtly, you sniff yourself. Just the clean, fresh scent of your deodorant. You sit back and lean your head against the wall behind you, top teeth back to gnawing on your lip until they draw blood. Sweet iron fills your mouth and you jump when the door beside you opens and Director Maria Hill steps out in an all-black pantsuit, hair tied back out of her face.

“Y/N L/N?” she inquires, and you nod. Holding out a long slender arm, “You can come in and have a seat. Captain Rogers will join us shortly.”

You nod, straightening your pencil skirt and blouse, and scoop up your file. Maria’s office is mostly windows; it’s bright, minimalist in terms of decor. A large holographic computer screen hovers in the air over her desk, and as she steps around it she exits out of the hologram. She sits in the chair, offering you the empty one on the other side of the desk, and you oblige.

She begins the interview process, looking over the file you’ve handed her that contains your resum é, extracurriculars from college, and other qualifications you believe make you the perfect fit for this job. You answer the questions she has in thorough detail, your voice steady and confident throughout.

In the middle of a sentence, you’re interrupted by Director Hill’s door opening, and the imposing figure of Captain Steve Rogers fills the doorway. He’s dressed casually—dark pants and a clean, pressed dress shirt that’s rolled to the elbows. On principle, you stand from your chair and Maria follows.

“Captain Rogers,” you begin, extending a hand but stopping short when the Captain looks away and stalks to your file. Awkwardly, you drop your hand back to your side. Maria watches carefully, lets the Captain take the lead.

He picks apart your resumé, drilling you about each and every one of your extracurriculars, your training. You rein in your rising irritation; if he’d been on time, he would have heard  _ all _ of your qualifications, but he seems to go over them with a fine-tooth comb, looking for any errors, any chink in the armor that you might not actually make it at SHIELD.

“Why should we choose you?” he asks, once he’s run out of things to grill you for. The file slaps down on the table. “What makes you better than these other, more qualified candidates?”

There’s an edge to his voice that makes your spine tingle. He sits rigid in front of you, air of confidence buzzing around him like flies on shit. He’s baiting you, so you take it.

“As you can see from my resume,  _ Captain _ ,” you hiss, hint of venom behind it, “you can see that I am in the top of my class in every field.”

“ _ Almost _ ,” he’s quick to correct sharply, “almost every field - except your fitness exam. Why is your rating Fair?”

Your cheeks burn, both shame and displeasure bubbling deep in your belly. You adjust the hem of your skirt distractedly. Steve’s eyes burn into your crown.

“Old injury during college. I tore my ACL and it didn’t heal perfectly,” you explain. Captain Rogers seems almost bored with your answer, giving a minute shake of his head before he looks back at Maria.

A silent exchange between them, it seems, and then he turns back to you, snaps the folder closed, drops it, and struts out of the office with “we’ll be in touch” tossed over his shoulder. Paired with embarrassment, you’re dejected. Assume his answers means you  _ haven’t _ been hired, but Maria’s mouth quirks a bit.

“Don’t mind the Captain. He can be...prickly. Overall, your stats look good. I’ll have a word with him but it looks like you’ll be ready to begin your official training come Monday. Welcome to SHIELD.”

Stunned, jaw ajar, a stiff handshake - a reaction you’ll probably laugh over drinks about in the future, but for now, it’s all you can do to gawk like a guppy.


	2. Chapter One

Your back hits the mad hard, air knocked from your lungs in a breathy grunt, followed quickly by, “fuck.”

“Again,” orders Captain Rogers, voice hard as granite and expression stony. “Do it again.”

Your hand twitches with the urge to flip him off as you catch your breath. Your muscles, tired and sore from the two-hour training session, protest as you sit up, accept the hand your opponent, Alice, extends to you. You take your stance, a little pressure building in your knee, and attempt to take Alice down again.

Your face burns with shame when you end up on your belly, arms pinned behind you as the taller woman rests on your backside. Captain Rogers sighs a groan, shaking his head with disapproval clear in his eyes. You pointedly don’t look at him.

“What is so difficult for you to get?” he questions stiffly. The weight on your back is gone, Alice smartly occupying herself elsewhere across the gym. You’re thankful. This chewing out is going to be rough. You grimace as you stand, your knee flaring up at the extra exertion it isn’t used to. “Hm?”

“It-It’s my knee, Captain,” you reply meekly, and you know it’s the wrong answer without even looking at him. You can practically  _ feel _ him tense before you, arms behind his back like he’s a drill sergeant and not a superhero.

  
“Your  _ knee _ . Your blaming your incompetence on your  _ knee _ . Sergeant Barnes is missing an  _ arm _ and he seems to be able to do what he needs to,” the Captain snaps, drawing the eyes of said Sergeant, as well as the agents he’s training. You feel their eyes on you, your face getting hotter in humiliation.

You close your eyes, feel the sting and pressure of tears behind them, and duck your head. You  _ won’t _ let him see you cry. You can’t. 

It’s been this way for eight months. A near-constant onslaught of scathing remarks, harsh criticisms, and a stubborn refusal to be a little compassionate. Captain Rogers is the goddamn  _ devil _ , and more than once you’ve thought about requesting a transfer to get away from him. You know you’re not a perfect agent, but you’re confused on why he’s seemingly singled you out. Your injury? It only acts up when  _ really _ pushed - and he’s been pushing you hard and ragged since you joined SHIELD.

“Get it together,  _ Agent _ .” The way he says it is venomous, as if it even  _ tastes _ acrid on his tongue. “Or I’ll see to it you never see the field. Dismissed.”

He spins on his heel and struts out of the room. The door echoes as it slams closed behind him. Lip wobbling, throat tight with the barely-restrained tears, you begin to gather your belongings. Movements made stiff by the painful protest in your knee.

You can hear the others whispering, murmuring, no doubt joining in with the ridicule of your clear incompetence. You can’t help it, a tear spills over and you choke on a quiet sob.

“That’s enough.” Sergeant Barnes’s voice is booming as he addresses the trainees. The murmurs stop. “That’s it for today. I’ll see you all tomorrow for marksmanship. Dismissed.”

You hurry your movements despite the pain when you hear him walking over to you, no doubt to tell you you should find another career. That you’re just not cut out to be an agent. He’ll be nicer than Steve about it, but it’ll sting nonetheless.

“Are you all right?” is what he asks instead, voice soft and gentle. You can see him in your peripheral, dark sweatpants, black t-shirt, but you can’t look at him. Nodding stiffly, you attempt to school your features into something stoic, limp to your gym bag. “Your knee is acting up.”

You remain silent, bag slung over your shoulder, but stay still, waiting for him to officially dismiss you as an agent. It doesn’t come.

“I’ve got a salve that might be able to help,” he offers, still gentle as he takes a small step forward. At this, your eyes snap to his.

They’re brighter up close, lighter too. The shade closer to ice than the ocean after a storm like so many of your comrades had described. Dark hair pulled back into a bun with a few strands framing his face. He looks nothing like the Bucky Barnes from your history books now.

“Shuri gave it to me in Wakanda,” he explains further, and then he gestures to his left shoulder, empty of an arm. “For the scarring and the aches. ‘S why I don’t always have the arm on. Bothers me sometimes, but the salve helps. If you want?”

You feel your mouth opening and closing, trying to form words but you’re not really sure what to say. It’s not what you’d been expecting him to say, after all.

“You’re not firing me?”

The Sergeant’s mouth quirks up a little, eyes glittering with amusement.

“No,” he says with a little laugh, “I’m not firing you.”

You stare dumbly at him for a while - long enough that he tilts his head, face contorting into a concerned frown. He reaches out and shakes you a little, jolting you back to yourself.

“Oh. Um, why?”

“Why?” He’s smirking again and oh no, you’re making an idiot out of yourself in front of the Winter Soldier. “Why would I fire you? Because of your knee?”

Your face warms again as you become sheepish, shrug half-heartedly and wince when he barks a laugh.

“You’re funny. Come on. Go get changed and then come to the tenth floor. I’ll have FRIDAY give you clearance.”

Bucky begins walking away, leaving you to watch, a little shell-shocked, as he goes. Mind reeling, you manage to get your feet moving towards the locker room. Inside, you’re bombarded by the other recruits, who’ve hung back to see what’s become of you.

“What did Sergeant Barnes say?” asks one, curious.

“Is there something going on with you and James?” says another who you pointedly sidestep, not liking the slight sneer on her face.

You manage to dodge their questions long enough to pull your day clothes from your locker and shut yourself away in the shower. As you stand under the spray, the warm doing little to help your now very sore knee, the women’s voices begin to fade as one by one they trickle out of the locker room. Sighing a little in relief, you finish your shower in quiet peace, dry off, and get changed.

You make your way to the elevator, though when you’re inside and you request the tenth floor, FRIDAY says, in as regrettable a tone as an AI can manage:

“I’m sorry, but you haven’t clearance for this level.”

“O-Oh. Um, I thought Bucky was…?”

Before she can answer, the doors open again and Wanda Maximoff steps in, looking surprised to see you. Wanda had been an unexpected friend - new to the Avengers, you met in one of your training sessions. She’d wanted to learn hand-to-hand, to not rely solely on her abilities in case they were ever compromised. While hand-to-hand wasn’t  _ your _ forte either, she was having particular difficulty learning how to punch properly. That much you could manage to correct her on, and it began a pleasant friendship.

“Oh, hi?” she says, slightly unsure. It’s rare that agents below the Avengers ever use the elevator - restricted access and all that.

“Hi Wanda,” you mumble, sighing with a small shake of your head. The brunette frowns. “Um, I thought...Bucky said he had something for my knee, but I guess he forgot or maybe he was just being nice or it was just a joke but, uh, I’m gonna go now.”

A red cloud surrounds you as Wanda locks you into place. She’s smiling gently.

“Nah, it’s okay,” she says, accent light. “He did mention something but he got caught up with Steve. I’ll bring you up.”

“Thanks. How’s your training going?”

She shrugs, pursing her lips. “About as well as can be expected I suppose? I still haven’t gotten Nat’s move down just yet.”

Huffing a laugh, you reply, “I don’t think anybody  _ but  _ Nat can nail that move.”

“Perhaps, but I’m determined to try. How about you? Your knee’s bothering you, isn’t it? You should say something to Steve.”

Scoffing, you give her a look. “No fucking way, and be the laughing stock of my group? No thanks.”

“Come on, Y/N. You don’t think he’d really do that would you?” She holds up her hands when you merely raise your eyebrows, frowning deeply.

“The man hates me. I don’t know why, but he does.”

“I’m sure that’s not the case, but I won’t fight you on it. He’s just…prickly.”

“Understatement of the year.”

She smiles gently as the doors open onto the tenth floor. “Come find me after. FRIDAY, give her access.”

“Yes, Ms. Maximoff,” lilts FRIDAY’s voice.

“See ya, Wands.”

Bucky’s is the only door on the floor, and it’s ajar, soft jazz music flowing from the doorway. You find yourself a little surprised, but only just - he is a man out of time, after all. You suppose you might’ve pinned him for a classic or hard rock fan, but jazz is just as good.

You knock lightly on the door frame, call out, “Bucky?”

“In here, doll!” he replies, muffled from around the corner.

Taking a step in, you observe his living space.  _ The Winter Soldier’s living space.  _ ** _The_ ** _ Bucky Barnes’s living space. _ Ooh, if you’re comrades could see you right now. His space is neat, tidy, bed made and you know it’s a habit from the army. Very little in the way of decor - a couple photos of Captain Rogers and him from the 40s, a few drawings framed.

You step closer to one - it’s Central Park, clearly, etched in black ink and beautiful. Blossoming flowers, a bench with a lone figure sitting as the world bustles by around him.

Something clatters in the bathroom, and you turn towards it. Bucky is kneeling on the floor, a few bathroom supplies scattered around him. He stands, jumping a little when he sees you.

“Hi!” His greeting smile is bright, and you feel your heart give a small tug. He jiggles the tube, the salve you guess, and says, “Found it.”

He crosses the room in a few strides, extends the nondescript black tube out to you. “Apply it before and after your training sessions, and just before bed. Works wonders, I’ll swear by it.”

Smiling tentatively, you gesture behind you at the drawing. “I didn’t know you could draw.”

Bucky chuckles, a little color in his cheeks. “Oh, that’s not me. I, uh, I’m pretty awful at drawing. Tried to do it during the war, pass the time, ya know? But it didn’t take. Nah, that’s Steve’s work.”

Your smile falters, stumbling off your face at the knowledge you were admiring  _ Captain Rogers’s _ work - prickly, dickish, self-righteous Captain Rogers, and you’ve just learned something very personal about him. You’re uncomfortable, shifting on your feet as the mood in the room changes. Bucky picks up on it instantly.

“He’s not that bad,” he tries to assure you, but he sighs when you give him a look that says he failed.

  
“Why does he hate me so much? He’s much harder on me than the others, and it’s not just because of my knee…”

Bucky sighs, can only shrug a little helplessly because even he doesn’t know what goes through Steve’s head most of the time. He has an inkling of what’s got Steve so tied up in knots as far as you’re concerned, but without downright asking him and risking exposure to one of his infamous mood swings, Bucky won’t know for sure.

“I wish I could tell you, doll.” And he does, because that frown pinching your face makes something in his gut twist. Slowly, a bit hesitantly, he reaches out and lays his hand on your shoulder, body heat seeping into his palm. You look up at him, big doe eyes clouded with a feeling of inadequacy, an insecurity of not being good enough.

He knows because he’s felt that - still feels it from time to time. Despite being an obvious member of this team, he still feels sometimes like the outsider - watching the others interact, the familial intimacy between them all. They’ve included him in everything, don’t get him wrong, but there’s something comforting about having that shared bond, a bond that only comes with time.

“Let me know how the salve works for you okay?” he says after a few minutes of silence. The two of you evaluating the other, a new shared insecurity connecting the two of you.

That soft smile is back on your face, and Bucky feels lighter. “I will, Sergeant Barnes. Thank you.”

“Bucky, please. I’m not really a sergeant anymore…”

A twinkle in your eye, a rapid shift of mischief, and then it’s gone, hidden behind that innocent smile again.

“Bucky it is then.” And god if it’s not the sweetest sound he’s ever heard.


	3. Chapter Two

Steve’s beginning to wonder if he should see Dr. Cho. Headaches have plagued him almost every day since he humiliated you in the gym. He knows that’s exactly what he did, and he almost felt compelled to commend you for keeping your cool in front of Bucky and the other agents. He also knows his treatment of you was more than a little unfair, but his ego wouldn’t allow him to rein it in. You had to learn, had to toughen up. If you couldn’t, you were useless to him and to SHIELD.

His uniform is tight across his chest as he straps in - a last minute mission mandated by Director Fury to scope out potential Hydra activity. He chose Bucky to accompany him, knowing the brunet has been itching to whoop some Hydra ass.

Now, Bucky stands in the jet, strapped to the nines in black leather and weapons, both visible and concealed. His dark arm glows under the blue lighting in the jet. He looks ready for a fight.

“You got this, right?” he asks. He knows he doesn’t need to, that Bucky wouldn’t have agreed if he didn’t think he could handle it. But he does anyways, just because.

“Yeah, piece a’ cake,” is Bucky’s reply as he cracks the knuckles of his flesh hand. “Let’s see how they feel about Frosty the Snowman exacting his revenge.”

Steve remembers when Bucky was afraid to joke about his time as the Winter Soldier. It hadn’t been too long ago, really, that he was shying away from anyone who dared utter the moniker or even Hydra. Now that he’s in recovery, he’s found dark humor in his experiences, can make a little light of what he’d gone through.

Steve aims a pointed look at his friend. “We’re not killing anybody, Buck. This is just intel.”

Bucky scoffs, waves dismissively. “We say that every time, and then every time, shit goes south. And if this was “just intel”, you would’ve brought one of the rookies to test them out - not me.”

“None of the rookies are ready for a mission yet,” he retorts, sliding his hands into his gloves. Bucky raises his eyebrows, feels a little wary about what he’s going to say next.

“Agent L/N seems to be able to handle herself.”

If Bucky wasn’t so in tune to both his best friend and in people’s body language, he would’ve missed the way Steve’s entire body goes rigid. Instead, he crosses his arms as Steve makes a show out of a long silence, purposely hesitating in responding.

“Agent L/N needs improvement,” is what he finally settles on. Then, because he’s not really sure why, he follows it up with, “She shouldn’t even be an agent.”

Bucky’s incredulous. “Why? Because of her knee? I’m missing an arm, as you so eloquently pointed out the other day. Should I not be an Avenger because of it?”

“It’s different, Buck,” Steve replies sharply, crystal blue eyes blazing when he finally lifts head to glare at the other man. Bucky’s hardly phased, simply crosses his arms over his chest patiently.

“How is it different? By your logic, no one with injuries or handicaps should be an Avenger, or an agent, or even military.” Steve’s silent. He knows Bucky’s right, but he won’t, can’t, admit it. His friend’s voice is soft as he asks, “Why are you so much harder on her than the others? What is it about her?”

“Leave it alone, Buck.”

The tone of his voice rings in finality - he won’t discuss this anymore, and Bucky is frustrated over it. He knows his friend is stubborn, pigheaded really, but he’ll get Steve to crack - eventually. For now, he lets it go, moves to the front of the jet where Clint is at the controls.

Meanwhile, Steve stews in irritation. The very topic of you is enough to have his face heating, fists clenching, and while he knows it isn’t really fair - he doesn’t really know you, after all - he can’t help it. Almost everything about you is enough to grate on his nerves. His therapist would tell him he’s projecting, but he can’t seem to stop.

The mission ends up being a bust. Absolutely no intel on Hydra activity whatsoever. Just a warehouse with a number of homeless people taking refuge inside it. So Steve and Bucky end up nearly buying out an entire grocery store out of nonperishables to keep them fed as the weather gets colder. Might as well turn the trip into something positive.

When the quinjet lands on the platform, Steve breaks away from Bucky. His post-mission routine, regardless of the outcome, is a solid two hours in the gym. Tony is on his ass for how many punching bags he goes through, but it’s the only way he knows how to level his head out again. He makes a quick stop at his room, changing into gym clothes, but when he gets to the gym door, he freezes.

It’s occupied. By you.

For a few moments, he just waits outside the door. Waits to see if you’re finishing up, and when you start on a new workout, he blows out a breath. He’s not sure if he should go in; you mere presence is enough to keep his concentration off his workout, but he feels the anxious energy in his veins.

He  _ needs _ this workout, so he enters the gym.

You look up from your place on the bench press station, face hardening when you see Steve waltzing over to the squat rack like he owns the gym. White hot rage coils in your belly, an autonomous reaction to his presence. Since his public humiliation of you in front of other agents, you’ve been on the defensive around him, but you keep your head down and obey orders like a good little soldier.

You do it to appease him, but you aren’t happy about it. Not at all. It makes you feel subordinate - which, technically in rank, you are - but even worse, it makes you feel about two inches tall. He doesn’t act this way with other agents. He’s tough, yes, but never nasty in the way he is with you. It only leads you to believe it’s personal - for whatever reason, he just doesn’t like you.

Gritting your teeth, you turn back to lifting, grunting lowly with the effort. While you work out, your mind wanders.

Bucky’s salve has so far done wonders for your knee. When you push it, there’s only a dull ache beneath the surface. It’s there, but manageable. You’ll have to arrange to have Shuri send more, and you’ll get Bucky a gift basket maybe as thanks.

You’re still a little thrown by Bucky’s friendliness towards you - being best friends with Steve, you’d wrongly assumed he’d be just like him. After all, all the stories you’d heard of the two involved them getting into trouble in some way or another. You’re pleasantly surprised to learn it’s not the case at all - the two of them, while similar in some ways, you’ve noticed, are like hot and cold.

Where Bucky is extremely mild-mannered and gentle from what you’ve gathered, Steve seems the opposite - coarse, abrasive, quick to anger. It forces you to give him a wide berth whenever you’re around him.

Today is no different. The two of you dance around each other as you work out, and you can see the pinched lines in his face that tell you your presence bothers him just as his does you. When you step up to the fly machine beside him, he slams the weights down hard. Bristling, you find a different machine.

It goes like this for another twenty minutes - you find a machine, and he’s quick to push you off of it. You know you don’t necessarily have to leave, but being so close to him makes you angry all over again, voiding your work out completely. You’d come to work off your stress, and he’s only adding to it. It’s as he swipes the treadmill you’re walking towards that you throw your hands up in defeat.

“Fine,” you growl, louder than intended as it echoes in the room. “I’m leaving.”

As you turn to go, his super hearing picks up, “Fucking asshole.”

When you slam the door behind you, Steve feels a little bit badly for cutting your workout short. He knows, maybe better than a lot of people, how good it feels to work off stress. He hadn’t missed the deep frown on your face each time he pushed you off a machine despite there being plenty of space for the two of you. Honestly, he’s surprised you went with it as long as you had, and even he can admit that last move was a pretty dickish one to make. You just make him so angry and flustered, and he knows he should address the why, but he isn’t ready to - not yet.

You’re cursing under your breath as you storm the hall up to your living quarters. They were optional when you signed on as an agent, but seeing as how you didn’t have much of a life to begin with, you didn’t see the point in having your own apartment.

Your quarters are basically an apartment anyways, though you share the space with your roommate, Julie. She’s a good agent, smart, though a little hot-tempered if you’re being honest. Can’t really take a joke, either. But she’s clean, quiet, doesn’t cause trouble.

In the middle of your muttering towards the elevator, you completely miss Bucky leaning against the wall beside it, smirking a little as his hearing picks up on you cursing Steve’s name. When you finally do see him, you startle, jumping backwards a little with a hand over your heart.

“Jesus, Bucky,” you gasp, and Bucky has to swallow thickly against the imperfect thoughts skittering across his brain. Instead, his smirk widens and he pushes off the wall.

“What’s Steve done now?”

You look confused, until it registers, and then you wave a hand around your ear. “Right, super hearing. He thwarted my workout.”

“Thwarted?” he snorts, eyes glittering in amusement. You scowl, but your mouth twitches a bit. Bucky is one hell of a mood-booster.

“Yes, thwarted. Basically forced me out of the gym with his Thanos-sized temper tantrum.” The vitriol is back in your voice, and Bucky sighs, shakes his head a little at the absurdity of his best friend.

“Since he won’t, I’ll apologize on his behalf. I really wish I knew what’s gotten into him,” he replies truthfully. You frown, both because the easiness is gone from his face and because you don’t mean to talk badly about his best friend, his Captain.

“Probably that shield of his shoved too far up his ass,” you grumble, brightening when Bucky laughs. Smiling softly, you add, “You don’t need to apologize for him, you know?”

Bucky likes the softness in your gaze, feels himself go mushy on the inside. Needing another reason to talk to you, he nods down at your knee.

“How’s it feeling?”

You kick your leg out a couple times, grinning happily. “Feels good. That salve really works, so thank you. I might have to get you a new bottle, though.”

He brushes it off. “Don’t worry about it. Shuri sends it every month or so. I can have her add a few bottles on for you, if you want?”

He preens when you flush, cheeks warming and eyelashes fluttering. You scratch your arm nervously, peek up at him under your lashes.

“You don’t have to do that for me, Buck.” It’s the softest, gentlest he’s ever heard you speak, and your eyes betray how much his offer really means to you. It makes your heart pound, makes you even more aware that it’s just the two of you in this hallway. It’s as intimate as when you were in his room that first time.

“It’d be my pleasure, doll.” The pet name comes too easily, he thinks, but he hasn’t a mind to care. Not when you flush so prettily. “Can I walk you up?”

“Sure.” 


	4. Chapter Three

It comes as a colossal shock to you that, two weeks following the incident with Captain Rogers in the gym, you’re paired up with him and Sam for a mission in Lima. When you receive the email, short and to the point, you spend a good few minutes blinking, rubbing your eyes, spluttering at your desk. Surely you’re imagining it that Captain Hardass has requested  _ you _ to partake in this mission.

You’re proven wrong when he sends an email in response to yours, in which you claim there’s a mistake, that reads: “Quinjet takes off at 8 PM tonight. Miss it and you’re gone.”

So you show up fifteen minutes early, garbed in an all-black SHIELD-issued tac suit and heavy boots. At the gentle behest of Bucky, you’d applied the salve to your knee as you dressed, just in case. The slight numb feeling in the joint makes you smile - or is that the thought of Bucky? 

Your acquaintanceship has blossomed headlong into an easy friendship. He works out with you in the gym, finds you when you’re lounging in the SHIELD common room. In turn, you’ve introduced him to some modern music once you’d learned he’s still trying to catch up. You’ve also gotten him sucked into Netflix and binge-watching shows, which the two of you do together often. Sometimes, you’ll just read while he learns how to work Snapchat or works on mission reports.

It’s such a far cry from the relationship you have with his best friend that it nearly gives you whiplash.

And the look Captain Rogers gives you as you enter the hangar is proof of that. He’s glaring fiercely, even finding fault in the fact that you’re  _ early _ for takeoff.

“What?” you snap before you can stop yourself. You cringe internally, wait for the reprimand for insubordination. You couldn’t help it - your reaction to him is automatic hostility, matching what seems to be  _ his _ reaction to you as well.

You’re not sure where he gets off on such behavior, but you’ve about had it with Captain Steve Rogers.

“You’re late,” he barks, and it sends white hot rage through your blood.

“You said takeoff was at 8. It’s 7:50,” you retort, make a show of waving your wristwatch in his face.

“Prep is half an hour prior to takeoff, Agent.” 

Oh, you could  _ slap _ the smirk off his face. If you both a) wanted to fist-fight Captain America and b) wanted to be fired for assaulting a commanding officer. He seems to see the struggle on your face because his smirk widens, darkens when he knows he’s won.

“Forgive me, Captain. It appears my commanding officer seemed to have left that part out,” you hiss through clenched teeth.

“A good agent should know when prep time is without her CO reminding her,” he shoots back, and a hot rage boils in your belly.

You brush by him roughly, keeping your biting retort on your tongue, stomp into the jet.

Sam is seated at the controls. You haven’t interacted with the Falcon all that much, but he gives you a bright, welcoming grin that eases your aggravation a little.

“Welcome aboard Falcon Airways,” he chirps, and you find it in you to smile a little. The Falcon glances over your shoulder at Captain Rogers, nodding once, and begins takeoff. Captain Rogers prefers to stand, while you opt to keep your distance in a seat towards the back.

The ride is mostly quiet; Sam and Captain Rogers go back and forth, muttering between themselves, but it’s too low for you to hear. Occasionally, though, the Captain shoots you unreadable glances, and your mind itches with the knowledge that they’re discussing you. It sours you, puts you in a bad headspace that you know you need to get over. It’s your first mission - you can’t fuck it up.

Not with Captain Rogers there to see it.

Sam expertly lands the jet about an hour later. You’d spent most of the ride going over the details of the mission, analyzing each bulletpoint and retaining as much information as you could. In your opinion, it doesn’t hurt to be mentally prepared. Know thy enemy, you think the phrase goes.

(Un)fortunately, Captain Rogers benches you inside the jet. You’re incredulous, and you do a poor job at hiding it. Your first mission, and you’re benched?

“I beg your pardon, Captain?” you question as he slides the famed shield onto his back. He barely glances at you, only doing so when you follow him to the ramp. Then, he rounds on you.

“I said, you’re to remain here. In the event that we need you, we’ll call for you. Until then, do us both a favor and stay put.” He doesn’t say another word, merely stomps down the ramp.

Sam’s hand is warm on your shoulder, and you turn to him. His face reads of sympathy, but an unwillingness to go against his Captain’s order.

“He just wants you to stay safe. First mission and all. Keep your comms on, learn some things, and then you’ll get your chance.” He smirks a little when you scoff in disbelief. His wingsuit is buckled across his thick chest, goggles pushed up his forehead. He checks and rechecks his weapons.

“Next time, kid, it’ll be you out there. We’ll call if we need you.” And then he’s gone.

You can hear the two of them going back and forth, Captain Rogers calling out instruction and Sam countering it with a different strategy. They operate like a well-oiled machine, and you can only hope one day you’ll have that kind of comradery with your teammates.

You spend much of your time alone balancing your knife on your fingertips, disassembling and reassembling your sidearm, and poring over the mission notes once again. It’s boring, but you suppose, in the calmness that follows your initial outrage at being confined to the jet, you understand why Captain Rogers has done it. You’re green as can be, and though you’ve done simulations, have trained under duress, you’re still not quite sure how you’d react in the face of  _ real _ danger. Perhaps you should be a little relieved, but still, there’s an underlying feeling of resentment towards your prickly Captain.

Narrowly avoiding slicing your finger open as you flip your knife, you startle when Sam’s panicked voice comes over the comms.

“Agent L/N, we need you - now. Southwest corner, fifth floor.” He’s cut off by gunfire, grunting, the sounds of fists meeting flesh. You don’t hesitate, slide the knife back into its sheath.

A second voice in your ear makes you pause. “No, Agent. Remain where you are. Do you hear me? Do not leave your post.”

Captain Rogers growls at his attacker, the echoing  _ ping _ of his shield loud in your ear. You know the Captain outranks Sam, yet with the noises of the fight in your ears, it’s hard to obey orders when they so clearly need your help. Mind made up, you arm yourself to the teeth, tighten the straps of a Kevlar vest and slam the button on the ramp to the jet.

Nondescript, the building in front of you looks like an office, innocent, unimposing. The gunfire coming from within it, however, shatters that illusion. Your stomach curdles nervously, hands a little shaky where they grip your handgun, trigger finger along the frame, safety flipped off. The door in front of you is smashed open, a boot-shaped dent in it. On silent feet, you enter the building, follow the sounds of gunshots, shouting, the ring of Captain Rogers’s shield. 

Sweat beads at your hairline, slides a salty line down to your eye. Jaw clenched, body rigid like a cat ready to pounce. Every bit of your training kicking into high gear as you focus on untoward sounds around you. Bodies litter the floor in the next room, all knocked out or dead, you’re not sure, but you clear the room and move on quickly.

Soon enough, you find Sam and Captain Rogers, each of them bogged down by men in dark tac suits. The shield glitters under the fluorescent lighting as it flies through the air, sends a man careening into a wall, returns to the Captain’s hand thanks to the magnetization. Sam, meanwhile, has his wings folded into the suit and grapples with a brute of a man who has his hand around his throat.

You aim your gun, careful, steady. Inhale, a squeeze of the trigger on the exhale. Bullet meets its mark in the brute’s shoulder. His cry is gruff, a spray of ruby as he presses a hand to it, and Sam sees his opening. A hard boot to the chest has the man flying backwards, head colliding with a metal desk that’s been flipped in the melee.

You throw yourself into the fight despite a sharp order from the Captain to stand down. Yet how can you when the two of them are overcome? You abandon the gun, slide it into the holster at your side and instead reach for your knife. It quickly meets the innards of an approaching enemy, and you drag it upwards towards his neck, open him to the bone of his sternum. You’re drenched in blood, but you shove him away, move onto the next.

Your hand-to-hand is sloppy, but it gets the job done as you slash and stab each body that throws itself at you. A punch to the ribs has you gasping, arching away from the attack as pain blooms in your side. It’s a mistake - your attacker is fast and hits you again, a left hook that sends you spiraling, puts stars in your vision. You hit the floor on your hands and knees, nose bloody and head swimming.

You cry out roughly when his boot meets your stomach, knocking you flat on your back. Your grip is slippery on the handle of your knife, slick with blood, and it’s all too easy for your attacker to gain control. He straddles your hips, plants a knee on your knife hand and  _ pushes _ . You feel the bones snap under the weight, sending a blaze of pain up your arm, and yours fingers loosen around the handle.

The man’s hands move to your neck as the bones in your wrist are crushed, fingers going numb and losing grip on your knife. The sounds of the fight around you begin to fade out at those gloved fingers tighten, press down on your windpipe until your vision blackens at the edges.

And then they’re gone - the hands around your neck, the weight on your broken wrist. A wrenching gasp from your throat while your entire arms feels as if it’s on fire. Whimpering, you cradle it to your chest as Sam helps you sit up. Around you are the bodies of the rest of the men, a sea of varying shades of black and charcoal stained with blood.

You grimace as your wrist is jostled, press it tighter against your chest as Sam helps you stand. Even with your head down you can feel Captain Rogers glaring fiercely at the side of your head. But he stays silent, at least until you’re boarded on the jet, arm in a makeshift sling.

“I ordered you to  _ stay put _ ,” he barks, face going red with his ire. “A good agent  _ obeys _ command, not ignore it for five minutes of fame!”

Your face heats up in fresh anger - an emotion you’re quite getting used to around Captain Rogers. You grit your teeth against both his criticism and the pain in your wrist, level him with a fiery glare.

“If I had obeyed, who the hell knows what would have happened to both of you? Sam called for help - I answered.”

“And I said no. That trumps what Sam says,” Captain Rogers responds heatedly. Sam, bless him, pointedly ignores the argument in the back of the jet and prepares for takeoff.

“But you both were overwhelmed! Am I really just supposed to sit here while you get your asses kicked?”

“You might as well have! You nearly got yourself killed in the process. You have no experience in the field, and with that shoddy hand-to-hand, I’m not surprised you ended up where you are! In fact, I’m really surprised you aren’t  _ dead. _ ”

A sharp inhale, though whether it’s from you or from Sam you aren’t sure. Your mouth snaps shut with an audible click, teeth grinding hard as pressure builds behind your eyes. You look away, silently relinquishing this argument, and you can feel Captain Rogers’s gaze burning your face. But you refuse to break, refuse to let him see just how much his criticisms have affected you, have hurt you.

When the jet lands, you tear off of it, making for the med bay with your head down and feet quick. Behind you, you barely make out Sam and Captain Rogers exchanging words. You pay it no mind as you ignore your fellow agents, who all seem to know exactly what has happened already. Whispers flurry around you as you hurry to the elevator, making your face burn in embarrassment.

They’re prepared for you - Sam must have called ahead to let them know. To your surprise, Bucky is waiting too, and when he sees you, his expression is so worried it makes your heart pound. He’s gentle where he grasps your shoulders, eyes flying over you form until he sees the sling and your bound arm.

“Jesus, Sam called for medical but when Steve got on the radio too, I just...I got so worried, doll.” Whether his use of the pet name is intentional or not, it still makes your belly flutter, face flush, and his hands warm your body from the inside out.

“I thought the worst,” he admits, crystalline eyes shining and wide and so damn inviting you let yourself fall into him. He steadies you, an arm around your back and the other cradling your head.

It makes you forget your anger for a little while, allows you to simply enjoy his warmth, the safety you feel in his embrace. His flesh hand is warm where it slides up and down your back, the most comforting of touches that you know you should reject yet can’t. 

Finally, you begin to feel a little awkward, your injured arm between you against his warm chest, and you step back. He lets you go but keeps his hands on you, begins to lead you to the waiting team of medics. They take you from Bucky, bring you into a room for an x-ray. He watches you, still worried but warmth in his gaze.

It keeps you distracted, blocks out the pain while they set your arm in a cast, prescribe you painkillers.


	5. Chapter Four

Tony’s going to have his head once he figures out Steve’s busted  _ another _ punching bag wide open. He’ll have to make a mental note to buy him some of that really expensive civet coffee he loves to chug so much. For now, he puts another bag on the hook and proceeds to wail on it. He grits his teeth painfully, tries to shove the scene going on behind him out of his head.

You’ve been sidelined, arm bound up in a cast and sling with orders to not push yourself. Shattered wrist, bruised neck, a deep purple necklace around your throat. Spirits high despite your ordeal, your injuries. You’re spotting Bucky, standing over him as he benches an impressive three hundred pounds. Your laughter carrying across the gym to ring inside his head, rattles his insides not unlike an earthquake.

When he’d entered, you hadn’t even spared him a glance, though Bucky gave a small nod of acknowledgement. He couldn’t blame you. Since the mission a week ago, he’d been turning over and over the entire thing, hating himself more and more every time for the way he’d spoken to you. The look in your eyes, offset by the determined set of your chin to not rise to his bait. But he saw the tears, the shininess of your eyes when you couldn’t look at him anymore.

It hurt, but he deserved it.

Your giggle carries over and he freezes mid-jab, muscles taut and he nearly feels his teeth crack. He can’t do this. He gives the bag one last pound that nearly splits the seam again, stoops for his water bottle, and storms out of the gym with a slam of the door. He curls his fist against throwing at the wall - feeling the destruction might soothe his anger, but only temporarily. And Tony would have a conniption.

The one person he could talk to - wants to talk to - is down in the gym with you. He’s ready to explain to Bucky, expects to after that little display and all of his behavior thus far towards you. But he can’t, not until Bucky comes to check on him, and if he knows his best friend, he will, and soon.

For now, Steve tries to find peace in his mind by sketching. First a hawk that circles the compound, then the lake, barely disturbed by a light breeze, and then, somehow and to his utter surprise - you. He doesn’t realize it at first, finds a numbing tranquility in his sketching that your visage is half-formed by the time it registers.

It’s you from the jet a week ago - after he’d cut you with harsh words. Your face had been so open, so raw, every expression discernible as it flashed through your eyes. It’s easy for him to replicate it, almost effortless because he has it memorized in his head. It doesn’t let him rest. Every time he closes his eyes he sees the hurt his comments have caused, his criticisms - when really, all you’ve done is try to prove yourself.

He hasn’t been fair, projecting his anger, resentment - his hurt - onto you. But he hasn’t known how to stop, until now. He knows if he keeps it up he’ll either get you killed, a thought that makes him sick, or you’ll quit, and he can tell you aren’t a quitter. Since your interview you’ve met him toe to toe, refused to let him walk all over you until last week. It reminds him almost too much…

He shakes his head, snaps his sketchbook shut and digs his fingers into his eyes. He’s exhausted, a rare occurrence in his life despite the rigorous missions and the sheer mental strain his job entails. Usually, he can handle it. But his stupid behavior has been exhausting to keep up with - so he’s done.

* * *

In the gym, you spot Bucky as he lifts. He doesn’t need it, not really, but it keeps his mind fresh and his body in shape. Plus, he doesn’t mind your company.

You’re still a little banged up from your mission, wrist bound and a fading ring of purple around your neck. But yet you’re still smiling, laughing at his teasing like you didn’t almost die the week before. It should worry him, but it doesn’t - not when your eyes light up the way that they do when you laugh.

He knows it bothers Steve. Even across the gym he can see how tight his shoulders hard, can practically hear his teeth cracking as he grinds his jaw. Steve isn’t subtle about anything, least of all when Bucky’s around, and Bucky can tell he isn’t pulling his punches as he splits another bag with a grunt.

To your credit, you don’t look, don’t even appear to be even annoyed by Steve’s obnoxious workout. Then Steve leaves the gym in a grey blur, and Bucky feels a frown tug at his mouth at how you seem to relax only once he’s gone. He hates that his best friend has put you so on edge, so uncomfortable with just his presence.

He wanted to deck Steve after you’d told him, teary-eyed but enraged, what transpired on the mission. While he himself was a little miffed you’d both disobeyed an order and jumped headlong into danger on your first mission, concern for you quickly overrode it when you told him, word for scathing word, Steve had said.

And then you’d slapped a hand over your mouth in humiliated shame. For having called his best friend, in no uncertain terms, an asshole, for bad-mouthing your CO, the leader of the  _ Avengers _ to  _ another _ Avenger. 

It took him ten minutes to calm you down from your pain-medicated panic, assure you that whatever you told him wouldn’t leave the room. He was your friend, a confidante, and you could tell him anything.

Only then did you relax, face red and eyes welling again, and Bucky had never wanted so badly to  _ pitch _ Steve out of a jet without a parachute.

And he can see that it still bothers you, Steve’s words. You seem to shrink when he’s around, which you make sure doesn’t happen too frequently - Bucky’s not a super spy for nothing. You avoid him where you can, but where you can’t, your body language speaks volumes of your discomfort, and he hates it.

“How’s the pain?” he asks, to distract you, bring you back out of your head.

You smile a bit. “Getting better. Cast should be good to come off in about a week or so Helen says.”

“Your voice sounds better, too,” he assures, sitting up on the weight bench. He accepts the water bottle you hand him, downs half of it. Your trachea had been mildly damaged, leaving your voice rough and hoarse and a little squeaky.

“Getting there. Hey, um, I was wondering...can I ask you a favor?”

He raises an eyebrow, silent request to continue. His curiosity grows when you hesitate, unsure almost in how close the two of you have grown. Is it too much?

“Can you… The man who attacked me, I don’t want,  _ can’t _ , have that happen again. Could you help me? Perfect my training, I mean? There’s only so much I can learn from...Captain Rogers, and I can’t ask him for obvious reasons, and I don’t know any of the other Avengers except for Sam and it was really just that one mission so--”

Amusement dances in his eyes as his metal fingers touch your lips to silence them. They’re hot under his touch, and only when your voice trails off, a little breathily at the end, does he lower them.

“I’d be happy to help,” he answers, mouth tilted up on one side and he chuckles at your bashfulness.

“Really?” you ask, eyes brightening. He enjoys the way his belly flips in response.

“‘Course, doll. But,” he warns with a single finger pointed at you, though his eyes still glimmer, “I won’t go easy on you.”

Something sparks in your eyes, something that he  _ likes _ , and you smirk. “Wouldn’t expect you to, Sarge.”

And oh, if something warm and wonderful doesn’t pool in his lower belly at that.


	6. Chapter Five

Training begins the day the cast comes off your wrist. An exact two weeks later, and Bucky’s pounding on your door at four AM, hair tied back and biceps - both flesh and gleaming black metal - on full display in his compression tank. Coupled with your sleepiness and just how unfairly attractive he is, your brain short-circuits for a minute when you first open the door.

“Up and at ‘em,” he orders, every bit the Sergeant you’d read about.

“Huh?” you reply dumbly, wiping the sleep from your eyes.

“Time for training, rookie.” The gleam in his eye lets you know he’s teasing, but still his face remains stoic. You glance over your shoulder.

“Bucky, it’s four AM.” Your voice is a little rough, still riddled by sleep, but Bucky pays it no mind.

“You wanted me to train you, so I am.” He pushes into your room, tamps down a flush at being in your personal space, and waits with his hands behind his back.

You stare for a few moments, realize he  _ isn’t _ going anywhere, so you sigh, scuttle slowly to your dresser to pull out a sports bra, some leggings and a tank top. You step into the en suite bathroom and change quickly. A glance at Julie’s closed door confirms she hasn’t been woken by Bucky’s early visit, and you breathe a quick sigh of relief.

The gym is empty, lighting kept low. It smells clean, despite its purpose, and Bucky begins your training with warm-ups: a few laps, some crunches, a few rounds on the punching bag to get your blood flowing.

Then, the real work begins.

Bucky doesn’t go easy - he comes at you like an enemy would, throwing his weight into each kick and punch. Each move calculated and thought out before the previous one is even finished. You can’t keep up, block his attacks as best as you can, but he barely lets you get an attack of your own in. He never tires - damn super serum.

He downs you embarrassingly fast, knee pressed into your chest. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to get his point across. He holds out his left hand, metal warm against your palm, and hoists you to your feet, but in the next second, he’s at you again.

You’re a little more ready this time - only just - and manage to parry more of his attacks. Even get in a kick that he blocks, but it’s the first time he’s given you an opening. He throws his metal fist and the whirring is loud next to your ear as you just barely dodge it. You’re a little surprised Bucky would even  _ go _ for your face with the metal appendage, and it’s that shock that is your downfall.

Your split-second falter results in you face-down on the mat, feet swept out from under you with your arms pinned behind your back. Wind knocked out of you, nose throbbing where it’s hit the mat. You groan a little, grunting when his weight disappears from you, and you roll onto your back.

“Sheesh, you don’t fuck around, do you?” you ask, coughing as you catch your breath. He’s barely sweating above you, feet planted on either side of your hips. The only sign he’s exerted himself - a few strands of dark hair have fallen out of the bun at the back of his head. 

“Not fair,” you mumble low under your breath, reminded only after a moment of his super soldier hearing. Face warming, you avert your eyes up and back as a smirk curls his mouth.

“Just needed to get a feel for you, sweetheart.” The pet name rolls over you like a warm bath, makes your skin prickle with goosebumps as he extends a hand and hauls you to your feet with all the effort it takes to lift a feather.  _ Damn _ that super serum. 

“Okay, first of all,” he starts once you’re back on your feet, steps forward and presses down on your shoulders, “you are  _ way _ too tense. You’re going to hurt yourself,  _ and _ you’re going to tire yourself out. So relax.”

You take a deep breath in and let it out slowly, try to push the tension coiled tight in your body away. It works, kind of, until a different kind of tension arises when Bucky circles you, brings his hands to your shoulders and digs his thumbs in.

“Relax,” he orders softly. “More.”

As his thumbs rub hard circles into the muscles of your shoulders, you feel your body melting against his touch, lower regions clenching. Jesus, what he does to you. 

“Better.” His voice slides over you like a warm bath, soothing and comforting, until he lowers his hands and steps away. You almost lean back, chasing his touch. A low chuckle, and then he stands before you again. “Let’s try this again. Remember, keep yourself loose.”

It’s difficult to do what he says, to keep your body pliant and flexible when every time he swings for you, you yearn to tense up. You have to train your body, he says, train it to fight  _ for _ you, not against you. 

“You hesitate too much,” he says next. “You give your opponent too much time to suss out a weak spot. Don’t hesitate.  _ Think _ . Stay a step ahead. When you make one move you should immediately be thinking of the next.”

You grit your teeth, quicken your movements and try to use the size difference against him. He grins, a little proudly, when he catches on, seems to struggle in keeping track of your hits.

“Good,” he encourages, following it up with a grunt as your elbow meets his lower belly.

You barely give him a second to recover, and then you move again, turning your moves into a game - a deception. Make him watch your right side as you attack from the left. It takes him minutes to recover, to figure out your game, and he’s grinning again. It both makes you preen and makes you push harder until you finally,  _ finally _ pin him to the mat.

Sweat pours down your face, soaking your hair and your tank top, drips off your chin onto his chest where you sit, knees on his shoulders. He could easily toss you off, yet he remains where he is - again, barely panting though his skin glimmers with sweat.

He’s solid beneath you, hot like a furnace, wide barrel chest lightly heaving, mouth parted. You swallow thickly, all too warm now and not from the exertion. His eyes have gone dark, crystalline blue almost completely swallowed by black. Abdominal muscles clenching under you, he sits up, slow, almost hesitant. Hands, one metal and the other flesh, both molten as they glide up your spandex-clad legs, raising shivers as he goes.

Heat pools in your lower belly, breath laboring as his hands anchor on your hips, thumbs brushing circles. They’re distracting - his hands, his eyes as they peer up at yours under dark curtain lashes. You’ve never seen them so close, glittering silver under the fluorescent lighting. Breath hot against your cheeks. Everything so  _ warm _ .

“Good,” he murmurs, low and smooth like honey, hands drifting higher. Yours settle on his biceps, flexing and twitching under your touch. Both unyielding.

Unsure who moves first, you’re surrounded by his scent as his lips touch yours, a tentative caress that steals your breath. You gasp, and Bucky presses forward, kisses you harder and slides his hands up to your face, holding you to him. 

A whimper in the back of your throat, fingertips buzzing, mind cloudy as he kisses the breath out of your lungs. Your fingers curl into his hair, loosen it from the bun he’s tied it into. It’s silky soft as you rake your fingers through it, shudder as Bucky sighs into your mouth.

Then, like a cold bucket of ice, your eyes fly open and you jerk away from him, scramble out of his lap onto the mat. Hand over your mouth, you watch wide-eyed as his gently flutter open, lips red and kiss-swollen.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” you gasp, and before you can rethink it, or ponder the confusion-hurt on his face, you flee the gym.

Face burning, you rub your cheeks, try to quell the heat - both from shame and from the effect of Bucky’s kiss. How could you let that happen? Exuded such a loss of control? What would Hill say if she found out? Your comrades? Taking advantage of an Avenger - that, or using him to boost yourself to the top. The rumors would fly, twist, convolute into things so far from the actual truth.

Which was that you’d taken advantage of a goddamn  _ Avenger _ . Your reputation would be ruined, all the hard work you’ve put in - gone, hidden, erased by horrible rumors that you were nothing but a promiscuous ladder-climber.

Grumbling under your breath at your stupidity, you lean back against the elevator wall, give FRIDAY your floor number. The metal wall is cool against your flushed skin, helps to ground you and bring your mind back. Heaving a deep breath, you straighten as the elevator slides gracefully to a stop.

The doors slide open and you make to step out until you catch sight of an all-too-familiar figure leaning against the wall across from your door.

“Captain?”


	7. Chapter Six

Captain Rogers looks awkward in your living space - broad, large, and imposing where he sits on the couch. He sits stiffly, feeling out of place in your personal space, your private space, observing the tiny glimpses of who  _ you _ are. He doesn’t feel he deserves it, doesn’t deserve the chance you’ve, to his own shock, given him.

Your rigid posture, hands behind your back, imply you’re expecting orders. And despite his attitudes toward you, you’d obey without question.

It makes his mouth twitch sadly, and he shakes his head. The gesture draws your eyebrows downward. Confusion, perplexion - he can’t blame you. He’d stood outside your door for thirty minutes and he’s still unsure of what he’s actually going to say.

_ How about, I’m sorry? _

He knows you’re losing your already waning patience with him the longer he remains silent. Swallowing heavily, he forces himself to meet your eyes.

“I… I owe you some apologies.”

You almost succeed in masking the sheer shock your expression morphs into, but you aren’t quick enough. He huffs through his nose, a bit amused by you.

“I know it isn’t what you were expecting to hear but… I’d been doing some thinking - a lot of thinking, actually - and the way I’ve been treating you is far from fair. Or right. I haven’t been very accommodating to you since you first interviewed here, and for that, I’m sorry.”

It’s deathly silent between the two of you, and you’ve managed to school your features back into that quiet stoicism that kind of unnerves him. He can’t tell what you’re thinking, and each second you don’t speak drags by like a lifetime.

“What game are you playing, Captain?” you finally retort, terse and clipped. Even from across the room he can see the suspicion in your eyes, the mistrust. He hates that he’d been the one to put it there.

He spreads his hands, a gesture of innocence. “No games, I promise. I know I haven’t given you any reasons to trust me but, I sincerely hope you believe my sincerest apology. My treatment of you...it wasn’t intended to be personal…”

“It sure as hell felt personal,” you snap, and Captain Rogers winces, nodding in understanding. “I mean, what’s your angle here, Captain?”

The title is said scathingly, mockingly, a sneer curling your features. A look that’s so familiar when it’s directed at him it makes his stomach sink, makes it feel like it’s full of rocks. The guilt and disgust with himself puts a wrinkle between his eyebrows.

“What are you getting out of this? There’s no way you’ve just happened to have a change of heart.”

“And if I have?” he questions sincerely.

“Then I don’t believe you,” is your immediate reply. Muscles in your jaw jumping, you continue, “From the get-go you have been nothing but a self-righteous asshole to me, ridiculing me in front of the other agents, second-guessing me, making me feel like I’d chosen the wrong career. You make me feel small, Captain Rogers, and like I don’t belong here. That being said, if your opinion of me actually mattered as much as you think it does, I would have put my notice in months ago.”

He knows the feeling of not being taken seriously, knows the pressure of being underestimated, ridiculed, taunted, pushed until he thinks he’s going to break. The fact he’s pushed you to this point puts nausea in his stomach.

You, meanwhile, can see every emotion as it plays out across his face. The furrow in his brow has grown more prominent, his frown deeper, fingers tightening into fists where they rest on his thighs. He squeezes his eyes shut and for a moment, he looks like he’s going to be sick. A small part of you realizes he’s actually disgusted in learning how he’s made you feel, but the angrier, less rational side of you is quickly stomping it back down.

He doesn’t deserve your forgiveness - not yet. Too many months had been spent questioning yourself, your training, your confidence. Your resentment of him for making you feel such a way is nearly palpable.

“You’ll understand why I’m having trouble believing a single word you’ve said to me.” Not a question, but a confident statement, and he can only nod. He’s done a lot of that in the time he’s been here, but he deserves every biting remark and question of motive you throw at him.

“So...where do we go from here?”

A valid question, but you aren’t sure of the answer, not right away. A few more moments’ pause and then:

“Give me time. Treat me like a human being, like an agent. Like I belong here because you and I know both know that I do. Start with that, and we’ll see. I can promise to remain professional - but only that.”

“I understand,” he says, and he stands because he’s getting the feeling he’s beginning to overstay his very reluctant welcome. “I know you don’t trust me, but I hope I can earn it back. You  _ are _ a good agent, Y/N, truly. One of the best I’ve seen.”

He departs after your sharp inhale, a compliment that staggers you, honest-to-god nearly brings you to tears. Because even though he’s been a royal pain in your ass, it’s all you’ve ever wanted to hear him say. 

You’re sure that makes you some kind of mental case, but you can’t find it in you to care. Once the door closes, your knees buckle, dropping you into the armchair. A few tears escape your eyes, emotions in overdrive - first the incident with Bucky, and now this? Your head is spinning, a pulse behind your eyes that warns of an oncoming migraine.

You groan, dig your fingers into your eyes because while dealing with the typhoon that is Captain Rogers, you’d forgotten about Bucky. You’d kissed him, or he’d kissed you - you aren’t really sure how it happened, only that it did.

And it shouldn’t have.

As comfortable as you feel around Bucky, as addictive as his presence is, this can only spell trouble - for you and for him. For one, he’s a higher rank, a commanding officer right underneath Captain Rogers. If anything were to happen between you, it’d be so deeply frowned upon you’d probably have to find another job.

Slamming your fist into the couch feels counterproductive and not nearly as satisfying as punching a wall, but you doubt Director Hill would appreciate having to repair it. So you settle for a hot shower and some Bailey’s in a cup of coffee, a book in bed once you’ve rubbed your skin raw. You have a mission debrief later this afternoon, your second mission, and you can’t help the swell of insecurity - will you fuck this one up like you almost did the last one?

Cursing under your breath at the endless bout of tug-of-war in your head, you abandon the book and rifle through your files for the mission summary. You’re determined to do this next one right.

A part of you, a tiny, miniscule part that speaks up against the crowd, wants to do this to prove Captain Rogers right - that you  _ are _ a good agent, and that hiring you had been a benefit to SHIELD. You’re determined not to let your blunder on your first mission become your legacy. It bothers you that you feel this way - after all, you’d asserted to the Captain himself that you didn’t give a shit what he thought of you. 

It clouds your concentration - your insistence that the Captain’s opinion doesn’t matter, yet your determination to earn your place amongst the ranks. Growling under your breath, you force yourself to memorize the mission notes front and backwards, shove the Captain and his opinions to the back of your head.

You take the stairs down to the conference room, give yourself a little more time to pour over the debrief. When you get there, you’re surprised to see Sam Wilson amongst the six other agents chosen for this mission.

“Agent L/N,” Hill greets, standing at the forefront of the room in front of a projector screen. She waits for you to take your seat before launching into the mission.

A drug kingpin who grew a little too curious about sense-enhancing substances. A bit too close to HYDRA territory, and it’s a simple extraction job. In and out, cease and desist.

Sam’s sent for supervision, to act as the senior agent in case things go awry. To your delight, they don’t. In fact, things go very, very well. Instead of being ordered to stay behind, Sam assigns you the lead position, lets you map out the plan to the other agents. A few heated glares, others envious of the responsibility you’re given, but overall, your plan comes to fruition neatly and quietly. Minimal hand-to-hand, zero injuries or deaths on either side, and you’ve successfully pilfered the scientific documents for the new substances.

You’re congratulated by Sam back on the jet, a bright grin against his dark skin. You like Sam, respect him and appreciate that he hasn’t seemed to judge you for the last time you worked together. In fact, he seems to recognize completely your desire for redemption and he sings your praises on the ride back to the tower, to your embarrassment. Some of the other agents warm up to it and join in, while others roll their eyes and turn away.

It brings heat to your cheeks as he rests a hand on your shoulder and says, lowly so as not to be too overheard, “I can see why Barnes likes you so much.”

A cold panic washes over you, but you just manage to keep it off your face. “What are you talking about?”

A simple disbelieving glance from Sam, a nervous shuffle on your end, and it tells him everything. He smiles knowingly.

“I won’t tease you about it, but you got our resident Iceman all tied up in knots.”

He chortles heartily while your face flames, and you have to look away. Though you feel the twitch of a smile trying to get through. It shouldn’t make you feel as giddy as it does, considering just that morning you’d run away from him.

But knowing you make him feel the same way he does you puts a lightness in your chest, and you resolve to talk to him, apologize for running. The flutters in your stomach intensify as the jet nears the tower, and if Sam picks up on your sudden urgency, he doesn’t say anything.


	8. Chapter Seven

When the quinjet touches down, you’re swept into the conference room to debrief the mission’s success. Sam, again, lets you take the lead in running down the mission, detailing the information hidden on the flash drive you’d managed to retrieve that contained the names of higher-ups within the organization. A quick cross-reference reveals their pasts associated with HYDRA, and Director Hill congratulates you on a job well done. 

You can’t help but preen, a warmth in your chest that spreads outward. Your fellow agents grin proudly, offer their congratulations yet again, and Sam smirks like the proud mentor he is in the corner of the room, still adorning his wingsuit. Though Hill grants you a small crooked smile, she’s quick to express that your mission report is due by eight the next morning, fully completed and as detailed as possible, before the room is dismissed.

A few of the agents pull you into conversation out in the hall, complimenting you, asking advice. It’s strange - you’re as green, or greener, than some of these other agents, and yet they’re flocking to you. You thank them for their praises but ultimately brush them off - you’re sure any one of them would have been able to perform the job as well as you had.

It takes some effort to get away, your desire to get to Bucky, to see and talk to him, overwhelming you. Despite being in desperate need of a shower, you decide to forego it and head to the elevator. You scrape your nails through your hair, tousle it, and smooth it down, adjust your uniform. There’s a nick in the left sleeve from a wayward knife blade, and your boot is untied. Sweat caked to your hair and exhaustion in your eyes, but you’re determined.

Bucky’s floor is empty, his door closed. Soft music plays from behind the wood, and you rap your knuckles three times. It takes a moment, but the music stops, and you can hear Bucky’s footsteps scuffing across the carpet as he nears the door.

The surprise is clear on his face when he takes you in, and it’s quickly shrouded by worry as those eyes of his, so bright and blue, rake over your form. He tugs you into his room, your feet getting tangled together, and you nearly get acquainted with his floor.

“Bucky!” you squeak, and then his hands are... _ everywhere _ . Running over your arms and legs, pressing for bruises or breaks or fractures, and while your face heats up under his scrutiny, you still manage to get a grip on his hands.

He stills, eyebrows still pinched in worry, a doubtful frown creasing his forehead.

“I’m okay,” you tell him softly, offer a smile that helps to drive the point home. “Mission was a success, no injuries, we’re all fine.”

You feel hot under his eyes as he gazes at you, hard and unwavering, until whatever he sees is enough to convince him. He nods sagely and takes a step back, taking his warmth with him. If he notices the slight shudder of your shoulders, he says nothing.

“I, um, I actually wanted to talk to you...about this morning.”

At that, Bucky withdraws a little. Crosses his arms over his broad chest and paints on a steely facade of indifference. It makes your stomach drop, but you plough on.

“I’m sorry I ran.” Even a highly-trained former assassin can’t hide the fact he’s taken aback by your statement, and it gives you the momentum to continue. “I got into my head and I...I panicked. I thought I was taking advantage—” you ignore his snort— “and that it would look like I was trying to...to sleep my way up the ranks. And so I ran. But I had some time to think and I owe you that apology. If I embarrassed you, or humiliated you, or made you think I was rejecting you… I’m sorry.”

As you’d spoken, Bucky had taken some steps forward, a teasing smirk curling his mouth. His chest inches from yours, he leers down at you, and it takes a strong willpower not to lean into him. He lowers his head until his mouth is just centimeters from yours, his warm breath brushing over your cheeks and his eyes keeping yours locked in their trap.

A cornered animal, but running is the last thing you want when he’s looking at you like this.

“You really think you could take advantage of a super-soldier?” comes his lilting, velvet voice. It washes over you like a blanket, raising gooseflesh beneath your uniform and yet hiking the temperature up a thousand degrees. Something low in your belly curls, squeezes, makes your blood race.

You tilt your face, let your lips brush over his as you speak, “I think I can be very persuasive.”

A slight upward curl of his smirk and then he’s kissing you so deeply you have to tilt your head back. Much like in the gym, everything is Bucky. His mouth is soft but unyielding against yours, so fluid it feels like a dance you’ve done a thousand times. Sighing against his mouth, you sink into him, and he hums in reply.

His body is hard and hot where he pulls you in, his flesh hand scorching your skin even through your catsuit. The gunmetal hand cups your jaw, thumb presses into the bone to coax your mouth open. Your knees buckle at the first glide of his tongue against your bottom lip, and you feel the muscles of his forearm flexing to balance.

Your fingers slide into his hair, kept down and smooth like it’s been freshly washed, curl around the strands and tug just enough to make him tremble and groan low in his chest. His teeth are sharp against your lower lip and you hiss, mewl when he soothes the sting.

When he pulls away, an audible noise between your parting mouths, you’re left breathless. A - mostly - innocent kiss that has you gripping his hair tightly just to remain upright. Chest heaving, you watch him, dark eyelashes like feathers over his cheeks, and then those eyes flutter open.

“I suppose that means I’m forgiven?” It’s breathier than you intend, but who could blame you after a kiss like that?

Cheekily, he smirks and shrugs. “Haven’t decided yet.”

A narrowing of your eyes and you tug again on his hair. His eyelids flutter again and that muscle ticks in his jaw as he clenches it.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he warns with a tilt of his head and a look that sets your blood on fire.

It’s too warm in here, and your mind has poor timing in remembering you’ve got news for him. So you make the painful move of stepping back and lowering your hands to his chest.

“I spoke with the Captain,” you murmur, glancing away and letting your mind drift to earlier that morning.

Bucky’s eyebrows rise, and he walks backwards with you until the two of you can drop onto the couch. He pulls your legs across his lap, a move that’s so casual yet intimate it takes you a minute to recover.

“What happened?”

“He was waiting outside my room. And he apologized. For how he’s been treating me, that it wasn’t fair and he’d understand if I couldn’t forgive him.”

You groan a little under your breath as Bucky’s hands work over your legs, fingertips digging deep despite the material of the uniform. You catch the look on his face.

“You look surprised.”

“I am,” he admits. And then: “He clammed up pretty fast when I asked him about why he was being such a stubborn prick to you. I’m glad to hear he smartened up.”

“You talked about me?” The thought of the rigid Captain and Bucky discussing you puts a weird feeling in your belly - one you’re not sure is good or bad.

“We did. After he called you out in the gym. We were on a mission together and I tried to get some information out of him, but he wouldn’t say a word except to tell me to shut it. What did you tell him?”

You sigh through your nose, wince when Bucky digs into a tender spot on your calf. It’s almost jarring out at ease you feel with him. “Told him it’d take some time. I’d be civil, but that he shouldn’t count on us being friendly any time soon.”

He snorts. “Bet that sat just peachy with him.”

“He was actually quite accepting of it. I think he knew he didn’t really have any room to argue.”

Bucky hums thoughtfully, and a silence ensues for a little while. He’s stopped his massage of your legs, though he still keeps contact, both palms warm through the tac suit.

In the midst of the silence, a thought occurs to you, and you mumble, “He said I was a good agent. One of the best he’s seen.”

Bucky’s eyebrows rise again - it isn’t often Steve dishes out compliments of that caliber. He watches your expression carefully; sees that you’re zoning out a little bit, mind someplace else, but not too far.

“He’s not wrong,” he adds gently, pulling you back to the present. You turn your eyes to him, slightly awed and speechless. He nods, as if to reaffirm his opinion. “You are a good agent. You’re smart and quick, and you bust your ass here. You’re strong, and you don’t take shit, even from Steve -  _ especially _ from Steve. You’re gonna go far, I’m sure of it. So I can tell you that that compliment? He means it.”

You purse your lips and sink into the couch, slightly uncomfortable with Bucky’s praise. You appreciate it, you do, but between his sincerity and the attention showered upon you by your fellow agents, it’s a lot to shoulder in just a day. Not to mention the mental whiplash courtesy of the Captain’s supposed heartfelt apology.

Bucky seems to notice the war within you, the shadow that’s suddenly passed over your face. With a gentle smile, he tugs you into his lap and stands, carries you easily to his bedroom. He sets you down on your feet, the carpet plush and soft. He reaches for the zipper of your suit, catching your confused leer.

“Relax,” he huffs, “not doin’ anything but getting you comfortable. I can see how tired you are.”

Shoulders drooping, you let him undress you until you’re down to the tank top and spandex shorts you put on beneath the suit. He steps silently to his dresser, a feat that amazes you given his sheer size, pulls open a couple of drawers. He drops some dark, soft clothing into your arms.

“I’ll let ya get changed.” He leaves his room, closes the door behind him, to give you some privacy. The thought makes your heart stutter.

You’re swimming in his clothes, a pair of heavy sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt that instantly surrounds you in his scent. It’s comforting, and you close your eyes and smile as you bury your nose in the collar. You feel awkward, though, standing in the middle of his bedroom. You glance at the bed - are you allowed there? He didn’t explicitly say no and yet…

Before you can worry too deeply, Bucky comes back with a mug clutched in his vibranium hand. The smell of green tea wafts into your nose as he gets closer, and the ceramic is warm when he hands it to you. You breathe deeply before the first sip, and you get a small hint of sweetness.

“Honey?” you question.

“Learned a thing or two since wakin’ up. C’mon.”

He tugs once on the baggy sleeve of your shirt and climbs onto the bed, sitting up against the headboard with those long legs out in front of him. He helps you balance carefully, maneuvers you so that you’re tucked up into his lap, mug clutched tight between your hands.

He radiates heat, and a fog settles over you, a sleepy, honey-slow descent into exhaustion. You get halfway through the tea before you begin to doze; his metal fingers clink against the mug when he gently takes it from you, sets it on the nightstand, and shimmies down the bed while keeping you curled up against him.

It’s hours later when you wake. No light streams through the windows; you’ve slept through the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. The bed beside you is empty but warm from Bucky’s body heat, so he hasn’t been gone long. Still exhausted, you roll over, hug Bucky’s pillow to your face, and drift off again.

In the kitchen, Bucky swirls a glass of bourbon, leans against the counter. A tray with a couple of ham and cheese sandwiches rests on the counter behind him, a quick dinner for the two of you considering everyone else has turned in for the night. Steve sits across from him at the island, needing a break from endless paperwork and mission organization. 

He’d found Bucky bent over the counter, putting together the sandwiches.

At Steve’s questioning look, he’d said, “She slept through dinner.”

And something sour curdles deep in his belly at the knowledge you’d slept - full context unknown - with Bucky. Found comfort in his best friend despite knowing he has no right. Not after the way he’s treated you.

“She said you apologized.”

Steve glances up at his friend, nods calmly. “Thought it was extremely overdue, and I didn’t really want her to leave because of me. Sam said she did well today, leading the team.”

“Bet that just ruffles your feathers, doesn’t it?”

Steve’s ready to retort, irritated, until he sees the gleam in Bucky’s eye, the smirk fighting to break through. He quickly deflates with a twitch of a smile.

“No, I’m...I’m happy to hear she’s not letting what I said get to her. I’m happy to hear she’s doing well.” It’s not a lie, but it’s said with a kind of hopeless tone that has Bucky tilting his head.

“When are you gonna tell me what all that was really about?” Bucky questions carefully. Sighing, Steve digs his thumbs into his eyes and shrugs. “Because even I gotta admit that isn’t like you at all. You always give people a chance before you have a bad opinion of them.”

“I don’t have a bad opinion of her…”

Bucky clenches his jaw, squeezes the glass in his hand. “You were on her ass from day one, pushing her and humiliating her when she didn’t meet whatever imaginary standard you’d set for her. She’s a rookie, Steve, she’s learning, and she’s learning fast if you ask me.”

He knows Bucky is right, yet his words paired with that acrid feeling in his stomach makes him scoot back from the island and turn to leave the room. Bucky calls his name, frustration and almost disbelief evident in his tone, but he ignores it.

He knows he’s being petty and stubborn and unreasonable, but he can’t help it. He’s normally not the type to run away from a fight, but how could he tell Bucky his true reason for his behavior? How could he tell his best friend that the girl he’s into reminds him of the very one she replaced? That her determination and confidence sent his heart hammering in his chest the very first day he met her?

….That he’s into the very same woman Bucky is?

Steve scrubs a hand over his face with a grunt as he stomps back to his room. That nauseous feeling still bubbling in his belly, he paces. He needs something to do, something that doesn’t require him to think, where he can shut his brain off. An idea crops up, one he knows is  _ bad _ , but he can’t seem to stop himself from grabbing a jacket and exiting his room again.


	9. Chapter Eight.

Steve finds patterns in the ceiling, shapes. It’s near-silent in the room save the sound of peepers through the open window, the soft breathing beside him. The weight against his chest shifts, sighs, rolls over, and he swallows thickly. Traces the lines of her body even though they’re all wrong, catches the scent of her hair - the wrong color.

He isn’t a stranger to the modern concepts of love and relationships, but it’s an indulgence he doesn’t frequently partake in. The women he meets are great, just none seem to strike that chord in him. None that seem to challenge him or intrigue quite like you.

The woman leaves with a friendly smile, an easy exit with no lingering questions of another night together or anything. He remains in bed for a little while longer, hands tucked up behind his head as he connects constellations in the ceiling. Training begins in thirty minutes, and he inhales deeply to quell the raging in his belly. He’s nervous; it’s the first he’ll see you after his apology.

He’d heard about your successful mission and he’s proud, almost excited for you, even though he knows he has no right. His treatment of you only serves to prove he’s failed as Captain; he’s meant to lead and guide and encourage. Instead, he judged and ridiculed and humiliated, drove you to the point of persevering to prove him wrong.

And you did. He’s embarrassed, ashamed - but proud all the same.

He dresses slowly in the SHIELD-issued black tac pants and navy t-shirt, the SHIELD logo emblazoned on the breast. Someone like Nat or Bucky or even Sam might accuse him of stalling as he carefully and meticulously laces his sneakers, but to anyone else he’d appear sluggish. To anyone else, he’d say he’s tired, that he’d had a late night, but if it were any of the aforementioned three, he’d pointedly keep his mouth shut.

He’s nervous - he’s man enough to admit it. He’s unsure of what to expect, unsure if he’d imagined his apology and your reluctance to believe him. He  _ hates _ not being sure, not being confident, hates being thrown off his axis, out of balance. Structure, routine, and control is weaved into his DNA, and by apologizing, he’s given up that control, given a piece of him away for someone to do with as she pleases.

He hates it, loathes the way it makes his movements slower, stiffer, like he slept on a bad mattress all night instead of his cushy pillow-top next to a warm body. A warm body he really had no business bringing back here last night, but he brushes that thought away.

He takes a little longer than usual brushing and inspecting his teeth, snarling into the mirror and using  _ floss _ of all things until he looks at the time and knows he can’t put this off any longer. Schooling his features into impassive steel, Steve sweeps from his room. The ride in the elevator down to the training room is spent building up a wall in his mind, a wall away from her - from you.

You’re already there when he enters, along with Bucky and a few other recruits. You’re smiling, teasing Bucky, and it puts lead in his chest. Absolutely scorches when you notice him and your smile promptly drops. He feels his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows heavily, and the burn in his chest lessons only a little when you offer him a respectful nod.

He returns it, catches Bucky’s eye and his friend gives him a reassuring smile. Steve’s not sure it helps. Mentally shaking it off, he begins the session, starts them off with running laps while he and Bucky spectate.

Steve can’t help but watch you; you’ve got near-perfect running form and you seem unbothered by your knee. You keep pace with everyone, even set it once or twice, and his scrutiny of you means he catches every little side-glance you give his best friend. The little curl at the corners of your lips, a darting glance away.

He catches the same expression on Bucky’s face - and he knows. How could he not know? The way he’d intervened when Steve was being unreasonably harsh, the easy, gentle teasing between you just now, the ever-present smile on Bucky’s face whenever he looks at his phone, the secret glances as you increase the pace and pull ahead.

As Steve moves the group on to sparring sessions, the looks between you and Bucky become less sneaking and more appraising, and Steve has to dig hard beneath to find any joy that his friend has found his own happiness. Steve knows Bucky deserves it, after all he’s been through and yet.

The obvious connection between the two of you makes his chest hurt and jaw clench so tight it aches. When Bucky calls on you to demonstrate with him, Steve has to hide his curled fists in the pockets of his sweats.

His mind is muddled; he has no reason to be this angry - jealous, surely - but angry? No. Aggravated enough he wants to knock Bucky’s teeth out, sick enough at the sight of the two of you, moving in such synchrony, that he almost looks for the closest trash barrel.

Instead, he pushes the recruits hard, calls out tips to avoid making his previous mistake again, and offers assistance where it’s needed. An adjusted position here, a tip about roundhouse kicks there. He can almost ignore you and Bucky grunting and shouting only feet away.

You, meanwhile, are almost hyper-aware of Steve and the one-eighty he’s seemed to have made. He’s keeping his distance, though you don’t miss the pinched expression to his face or the underhanded glances he shoots you. Probably anticipating a snarky reply or otherwise prove you  _ aren’t _ trying to remain civil.

He’s made his way over as Bucky pulls you into a headlock, the position warming something deep within you. His arm is loose enough around your neck that he isn’t cutting off any air, but his pelvis is flush with your backside and you even think he’s grinding it - imperceptibly enough that it goes unnoticed by the others. He’s fresh, you’re learning, pushing boundaries wherever he can.

Normally, you’d play along, dig and push a little back, but not with Steve watching the way he is. Arms crossed, feet hip-width apart in his typical Captain stance, but he’s far less rigid than he was. You execute S.I.N.G. ( _ solar plexus, instep, nose, groin _ ) with anxious butterflies, but you manage to successfully complete the move, spin, and move to jab Bucky again. 

His voice is even gentle when he tells you, “Move your feet. Don’t lock up or remain stationary.”

It’s such a far cry from his previous gruff behavior that it throws you, knocks you slightly off-kilter so that you stumble into Bucky’s chest. With heat in your cheeks, you push away from him, try to resume as if you didn’t fumble at all. You’re meant to be the picture of indifference and yet Steve’s one-eighty has you completely floored.

Should you be, though? He did promise you he’d be better, and so far he’s kept that promise. Perhaps a part of you hadn’t believed him, hadn’t had any reason to believe him - about anything. The fact that he’s  _ trying _ stirs something in you, and it leaves you open to wind up face-down on the mat.

“Shit,” you grunt as the wind rushes from your lungs.

“That’s what happens when you get distracted,” Bucky teases before reaching with his metal hand to help you to your feet. “Your enemy won’t hesitate to exploit that opening if you give it to them.”

“Yeah,” you agree on a sigh, “yeah. Let’s do it again.”

The warmth in your cheeks doesn’t cool as you run through your spar again. This time, you manage to block out Steve’s close scrutiny and get Bucky on his back, a knee pressed into his chest. You know he can toss you off without a hitch but he lays there, lets you have the win.

“Better,” Steve compliments with an approving nod. You can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes, so you stare at his chest - which, to your shocking admission, isn’t all that much better. The intrusive thought forces you to duck your head, busy yourself with your water bottle as Bucky and Steve begin a rundown of the next exercise.

If either notice you take a little longer to collect yourself, they don’t say anything. After a few more moments of distracting yourself with your water bottle, you return to the group as the Captain and Bucky begin a mock-mission to sharpen your skills.

By the time you’re released from training, you’re covered in a layer of sweat that shimmers under the overhead lights, your mind is tapped, and your entire body feels like it went a round or five against Mike Tyson - super soldiers in your case, but they’d pulled their punches. The muscles in your back pull taut as you stretch, a tightness that makes you wince, expel a tiny whimper.

A gasp as a set of hands lands on your back - one warm, the other just slightly cooler - and the thumbs dig in, find the tightest muscles and  _ press _ .

“Fuck,” you hiss, arching against Bucky’s skilled hands. A pained smile over your shoulder and, “Hi.”

“Hi.” He grins and leans forward to drop a kiss to your temple. “You did good today.”

“Feels like I went ten rounds with an MMA fighter, but thank you.” Another  _ hmph _ as Bucky digs his knuckles into your lower back, and a sigh as the tightened muscles release. You slouch against him, disregarding the slight dampness to his compression t-shirt, and turn your face into his neck.

“Feel better?” he asks, throat vibrating against your forehead. Wordlessly, you nod.

“Until tomorrow when it really sets in. You’ll have to carry me everywhere,” you retort cheekily, tilting your face to meet his glimmering eyes.

“Oh, will I?” A teasing upturn of his lips and your eyes dart to them, hold there for a moment as your heart trips over itself in your chest.

“Uh huh.” A pause, then you shrug. “Or you can just stay in bed with me.”

The darkening of his eyes is offset sharply by the awkward look that suddenly shadows his face, cheeks going rouge as he quickly averts his eyes. It’s an odd reaction, and you tilt your head, mouth popping open before he overrides you.

“Whatever you want, doll,” he assures with a smile, all traces of bashfulness gone.

It’s a bit disconcerting how quickly his charming, easy-going demeanor is back in place, but you chalk it up to his former status as an assassin. Give nothing away. He further pulls your mind away by lifting your hand to his lips and dotting small kisses across your knuckles.

“C’mon. Should take an ice bath for those muscles.” And he tugs you down the hallway.

“ _ Mother of fucking SHIT _ .”

Bucky chortles, applies pressure to your shoulders to keep you from popping out of the bathtub he’s filled with ice and water. There’s a burn in your limbs from the cold, and your nails scrape at the ceramic of the tub, squeaking in the small space. Breath rushing in and out as you try to relax, loosen your sore, tightened muscles to let the coldness do its job.

But it’s  _ hard _ , your mind whines, and your verbalize said whine pathetically.

“It’s so cold.” It’s a whisper, because speaking any louder is downright impossible as your brain works overtime to warm your body.

“I was frozen in ice off and on for seventy years,” he reminds you teasingly, “you can handle it.”

You hiss a laugh, and it makes his mouth twitch. He recalls the first time he ever made a joke about his history with HYDRA. Steve nearly shit a brick before chiding him about how he shouldn’t joke about such things.

“Steve, it happened to  _ me _ ,” he’d reminded, “I should be able to joke about it all I want if it helps me cope.”

Steve hadn’t said anything after that, but each time Bucky made a jab at HYDRA, he didn’t miss the disapproving gleam in his friend’s eye.

He feels relief that you laugh, feels, well, normal, and like he’s made progress if he feels he can confidently joke about his trauma. He  _ knows _ he’s made progress, but there are still instances where he feels the others aren’t so sure.

With you, though, he doesn’t have to second-guess it. You don’t treat him like glass, like he’s going to shatter at the first sign of distress. It’s refreshing from the overbearing manner with which Steve treats him on most occasions. He’s thankful you hadn’t known the Bucky from before, the one Steve grew up with, the ghost of a time that’ll never come again. You’ve nothing to compare him to, nothing to miss like Steve does. It’s as refreshing as ice cream on a hot day...or an ice bath following a rigorous workout.

“C-Can I g-ge-get out yet?” Your teeth are chattering, arms crossed tightly over your chest and rubbing at your arms, riddled with gooseflesh. Your lips are even turning slightly blue as they wobble with the cold. 

“Can you feel your muscles?” he asks, reaching for the towel he’d placed on the toilet seat.

“I ca-can’t f-f-feel my lips, never m-mind my mus-muscles.” The snark is lost amongst the clicking of your teeth, but it gleams heavy in your eyes. Smirking, Bucky holds out the towel and helps you stand on shaky legs, like Bambi on ice.

Leggings and sports bra plastered like a second skin, they in no way help to warm you even out of the ice, and after you’re wrapped in the towel, Bucky gives you your privacy to strip down and get changed. Movements unsteady, your wet clothes are plopped into a pile on the tile floor and new, warm, dry clothes are hastily thrown on. Despite the rigorous workout this morning, you feel freshly invigorated, like maybe you could run a mile - once feel comes back to your legs, that is.

Burrowed in the new clothes, you step out of the bathroom to see Bucky reclined on your bed, looking quite at home. It puts a warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest as you approach, and it only grows when he opens his arms for you to burrow into the heat of him. His arms wind around you, the metal one a comforting weight against your back.

It’s silent for a little while, a peaceful blanket pulled over the two of you in the small space of your room. Bucky’s chest rises and falls gently beneath your cheek, slow breaths, and you almost think he’s asleep until he speaks.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

You ponder for a couple beats. “What’s your favorite part of the 21st century? I mean, you were frozen off and on for so long, you didn’t really get a chance to enjoy anything right?”

He hears the trepidation in your voice, the slight intonation that you might actually be crossing a line by asking. He smiles, chuckles a little so you know you haven’t offended him.

“Is it predictable to say the food?” At your head shake, he goes on, “I mean, in the 30s and 40s, we barely had nothin’. Sometimes we’d all go to bed hungry with no dinner, and sometimes I gave my sisters my portion of food. I was the oldest, you know? Had to take care of my family. But now…now there’s just, so much. And so many different kinds! You know, when I first came to the compound, after Shuri fixed my noggin, I didn’t eat a lot. Ate only what I thought I was allowed to eat. One small serving. Was still going to bed hungry even when all this food was at my disposal.

Then Steve came to talk to me. Told me he was the same way, when he first came out of the ice. Said he had to take it slow because even though he was bigger, his body wasn’t used to eating so much. Neither was mine, even though I was healthier when I… before. HYDRA didn’t feed me, not really. No hot, home-cooked meal for the Fist. It was MREs, or a feeding tube - if I was awake long enough at the base. My system got used to it, and then when HYDRA fell, it was always…Ramen or canned meat, some fruit, if I could afford it. Nothing real substantial. Even in Wakanda, I was still only eating small portions. My first three-course meal here, I puked it all up. I was so astounded by the fact that I could eat as much as I wanted to, but my body wasn’t ready for it. It was used to rationing itself on small meals, used to fasting sometimes, too. But it got better. I ate a little more at each meal, got my body used to eating three times a day. Started working out more, too, to up my hunger. Eventually I could put away three servings at each meal and still have room for dessert. I’ve got a wicked sweet tooth.”

The last line is so unexpected, it makes you snort, choke on the breath, before you can laugh for real. It’s short, though, when you take in the entirety of his story and realize there’s so much you still have to learn about one James Barnes, so much of himself to reveal, so many layers to peel back so you can see who he truly is. A little skip in your heartbeat betrays your excitement to find out, if he’ll let you.

“I’ve got a list,” he then says, “of things people have recommended I try. Maybe you can help me cross some of them off, huh?”

“Bucky Barnes, are you officially asking me on a date?” you tease, leaning your head back to aim a cheeky smirk his way. 

His chest rumbles against with that warm chuckle that warms you to your bones. “Suppose I am. You gonna leave a guy hangin’?”

“Hm, I  _ suppose _ then I could assist you with this foodie bucket list. We’ll make a cultured man out of you yet.”


End file.
